Jewel stared at her for a moment. “Yes, it’s nice to see you too,” she said. “I was wondering where you had got to. Of course I’ll get my father for you. And here, a wrap.”
She took hers off and dropped it. Solanda wasn’t able to move quickly enough, and the wrap landed on her head. The smell of cinnamon was overpowering. She poked her face out in time to see Jewel striding naked into the corridor.
Solanda made a small huff of disgust. Then she crawled from underneath the wrap and closed her eyes, putting on her woman skin. The air grew colder as she felt her limbs stretching. Finally the change ended. She opened her eyes, grabbed the wrap, and wound it around her.
The cinnamon indicated a spell for extra warmth, something she was profoundly grateful for. She stepped inside to see Jewel, dressed in another wrap, cross the hall and knock on a different door.
The cabin was plain. A fireplace graced one wall, and a table with food and stools for chairs nearly filled the room. Quite a comedown from Rugar’s place in Nye. He had taken over a bank building there, slightly smaller than his father’s, and had used the vault for a bedroom.
Solanda picked a slice of bread off the table and took a bite. It tasted a bit stale. She didn’t care. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.
Rugar came out of the back room, Jewel at his heels. He was rubbing his hand through his hair in an attempt to comb it. He had pulled on a pair of breeches, but his chest was bare. She was surprised at the flatness of his belly, and the muscles lining his chest and sides. She had always thought Rugar a bit soft: a man who talked about fighting but who had never done any himself.
“What’s so important that you had to wake me up?”
“I woke you up,” Solanda said, taking another slice of bread and breaking it into small pieces. “Not your daughter.”
Rugar gave Jewel a pointed glance. She shook her head as if she could not believe what Solanda had said, then disappeared down the hallway.
“I wanted to tell you what I’ve done before the Domestics did,” Solanda said. .
“The Domestics?” Rugar sat down. He still looked half-asleep. With his left hand he picked up a pitcher and poured himself and Solanda water.
She nodded, then took a sip of water. It tasted good. “I brought a baby to them this morning. Actually, not a baby, really, more like an infant or a toddler. He has some language and he can walk on his own.”
Rugar set his cup down. She had his full attention now. “Where did you get this child?”
“Near Daisy Stream. Apparently some of our soldiers killed his parents a year ago, and an old woman took him to safety. I brought him here.”
“Whatever were you thinking?” Rugar asked. “What are you doing with an Islander’s child? If you had wanted a child of your own, you should have told me. I think we could have resolved the problem without resorting to theft of an Islander.”
“I don’t think so—” Solanda said.
“I do. Do you know what this will do? They will come after us even stronger now. We’re not just trying to kill their soldiers. We’re going after their babies.”
Solanda straddled a stool, unshaken by his anger. “Rugar, you should trust me.”
“Trust you? You may have escalated the war without consulting me, and you ask me to trust you?”
“Yes,” she said. She leaned forward until her face was inches from his. “That’s precisely what I’m asking you. I have never brought you a child before, and when I have done something without consulting you, it has usually been right.”
He moved away from her. “Usually.”
“I’m right in this case,” Solanda said. “That child called to me. I found his home, the one where his parents were killed, and then I tracked him.”
“I thought you said his parents died a year ago.”
She nodded.
“Then how—?” He stopped himself. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he had the answer. “It’s not possible.”
“It happened,” she said. “He called to me. Not a conscious thing. I think he left a trail for his parents to follow if they had lived. Only I’m the one who followed it.”
He crossed his arms. “The Islanders don’t have magic.”
“This little one does,” Solanda said. “Which is probably why their holy water works as it does. They just don’t acknowledge their powers as magick. They couch it in religion.”
Rugar shook his head. “We would know.”
“We do know,” Solanda said. “We know very well. Our people have died for that knowledge. I think it is time we realize that we may not be the only magick people in the world.”
“If they were magick, they would live differently.”
“They live no differently from some of the Fey settlements. They have just incorporated magick into their lives in an unusual way.”
Rugar’s frown grew deeper. “It doesn’t seem like magick to me.”
“It would if you look at this child,” Solanda said. “He has a second voice, one I can hear in my head. I would never have found him if it weren’t for that voice. And it developed young. He must have been in swaddling when he left that trail I followed.”
“I don’t like the implications of this,” Rugar said.
“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean that it’s not true,” Solanda said. “I think you need to let the Spell Warders know they’re working with a new kind of magick, and they need to figure out what to do with it. To neutralize it, perhaps, as they would a bad Fey.”
“I’ll see the child first,” Rugar said.
Solanda shrugged. “Do as you want. I’m going to finish some of your bread, and then I’m going to get some sleep. If you haven’t found any work for me by the time I wake up, I’m going back on the prowl to see what oddities I can find.”
“I thought you wanted this child.”
She shook her head. “I brought the child for you. I do think he should be raised here. I don’t think the Islanders should be allowed to have anything so powerful.”
“What do you suggest that we do with him?” Rugar asked. “We can’t use the powers of a baby to fight a war.”
“Not yet,” she said. “But we can use him in the future. And that’s what you need to be looking toward, Rugar. You keep thinking this is an ordinary campaign, and it’s not. The Fey will be on Blue Isle for a long time, and I, for one, will not spend that time in this gray and dismal place.”
“We’re safer in Shadowlands,” Rugar said.
“Probably.” Solanda took a sip of water. “But safety is never a consideration in war, particularly if you want to win.”
SIXTY-SIX
He felt like a thief in his own home. The Rocaan crept down the corridor, carrying a small lamp in one hand, a vial of holy water in the other. The lamp’s light was faint, barely illuminating the floor and the wall beside him. He was shaking, not with exhaustion, which he felt in every ache of his body, but with fear.
The Rocaan should not be frightened of anything.
But he was no better than the people he decried. He was going to one of his Elders to see if the man had been tainted by enemies of his people. He was not acting like a Rocaan. He was acting like a soldier.
Only he couldn’t help himself. He had to know.
The doors in the Elders’ wing had locks, but the Rocaan had a ring of keys to open all of them. He was the only person with access to all of the rooms in the Tabernacle.
He stopped at the door to Matthias’s chambers and rested his head against the door frame. He could change his mind now. He could ask Matthias what was going on.
And risk hearing lies.
All the talk of bodies and blood and bones had spooked him. Reece’s comments about the tainted holy water had spooked him even more.
The Rocaan stood up and stuck the vial into his pocket. Then he took the key ring from his sash and quietly unlocked Matthias’s door.
The Rocaan’s heart was pounding twice as fast as usual. Sha
rp pains shot from the bottom of his feet to his knees. He needed rest, and soon. But he couldn’t rest until this was all settled.
Matthias’s chambers were dark. Light from the moon floated in an uncovered window, making all the furniture look like gray lumps. The Rocaan slipped in and eased the door shut so that it made no noise as it closed. The latch clicked, sounding like thunder in the quiet rooms.
Even breathing came from the secondary chamber. Coals in the fireplace there burned red, giving everything an orange glow. The Rocaan set his lamp on a table by the door, so that the minuscule light wouldn’t awaken Matthias. Then he crept toward Matthias’s sleeping room.
The Rocaan took the vial from his pocket and held it in his fist. His shaking had grown, as had his feeling that what he was doing was very wrong. It was against all his beliefs, against all that he had been taught. A man believed his friends and colleagues. He did not test them without their knowledge, especially with a test that might kill them in a horrible manner. A man did not even do a thing like that to his enemies.
The red glow in Matthias’s bedchamber grew as the Rocaan stalked closer to it. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the bed, piled with blankets. Books and scrolls covered the floor beside the bed. Matthias was asleep on his back, one hand resting on top of the covers, his shoulder bare.
The Rocaan stared at him for a moment. He had sponsored this man. He had chosen him to become an Elder despite his youth and strange looks. The break between them since the invasion had been hard. It was difficult to remember that, on the day of the invasion, Matthias had been the Elder that the Rocaan had trusted the most.
His hand hurt because he clutched his fist so tightly. He was half-afraid the vial would shatter. He stood over Matthias, watching his chest rise and fall with each even breath.
It would be so easy. A single drop would tell him everything he needed to know.
But he would never be able to live with himself again, and God might turn his Ear even further from the Rocaan than he already had.
The Rocaan reached out with his empty hand and touched Matthias’s arm. Matthias started but didn’t awaken. The Rocaan grabbed Matthias’s wrist and shook it, whispering Matthias’s name. Finally Matthias’s eyes opened.
“Holy Sir, what—?”
The Rocaan put a finger to his lips, although he wasn’t sure why he insisted on silence. “Get dressed, then come to the other room and talk with me.”
Matthias nodded. He ran his hand through his hair—the curls were in complete disarray—and sat up.
The Rocaan hurried back into the main room. He used his small lamp to light a candle and then went from lamp to lamp, so that the entire room was ablaze in light. It was cold there. The fire had gone out in this chamber long ago.
He would tell Matthias what he had been thinking. If Matthias acted badly—although what “badly” meant the Rocaan didn’t know—then the Rocaan would toss holy water on him. If Matthias acted well, the Rocaan would still insist on a test. Matthias would just have to understand.
When Matthias emerged from his sleep chamber, he wore a simple black robe and nothing on his long, slender feet. His hair was still mussed, and shadows under his eyes made them appear sunken.
“Is there an emergency, Holy Sir?” he asked. His voice was roughened from exhaustion. Matthias was probably as tired as the Rocaan. Only Matthias was younger. He could take the strain on the body better than the Rocaan could.
“Sit down,” the Rocaan said.
Matthias chose a chair near the cold fireplace. The Rocaan sat in a chair opposite him. His legs protested, and he knew he would have trouble getting up.
“Forgive me,” the Rocaan said, “but I would like to ask you to allow me to sprinkle some of my holy water on you.”
“Certainly.” Matthias extended his left hand. It was clean and well manicured. He did not shake as he held his hand in the air.
But the Rocaan did. He unstopped the vial and poured four drops of holy water onto Matthias’s hand. The drops pooled in Matthias’s palm.
“Do you want to say a Blessing?” Matthias asked.
“Do you need one?” the Rocaan said.
“Everyone needs one these days,” Matthias said.
So the Rocaan murmured a short version of the Blessing over Matthias. The Rocaan’s voice shook as much as his hands had. He had been wrong. He had been wrong. He had not believed, and he had been wrong.
When the Blessing was over, Matthias looked at him. “Am I to find out what this is about, or should I go back to bed?”
The Rocaan shook his head, although he knew Matthias wasn’t certain which question he was answering. “I am sorry,” the Rocaan said. “I needed to know.”
Matthias picked up a small sword from the table, a sword that should have been on a chain or sash, and dipped it into the water in his palm. Then he rubbed the water over the sword, murmuring part of the Midnight Sacrament. When he was done, he put the sword in a small ceramic bowl and rubbed his hands together.
“Forgive me, Holy Sir,” Matthias said, “but I would have thought that my work with the holy water would be enough to prove that I have not been touched by the Fey.”
The Rocaan nodded. “So would I. But tonight I discovered that the holy water used in the Midnight Sacrament was not real holy water.”
Matthias leaned back just a little. “And you knew you hadn’t done that, so you suspected me. Are you sure of your source?”
“Very,” the Rocaan said. He couldn’t tell Matthias who or how he knew. No one else among the Elders knew of the peculiarity in the Cliffs of Blood. Another of the Secrets.
Matthias rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The movement was boyish. The Rocaan had forgotten how young Matthias really was. “Then we need to know if there is more than one vial,” Matthias said. “I trust the one you Blessed me with is one you made yourself?”
The Rocaan nodded.
Matthias sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair like a comb, and this time the curls fell into place. “All right. Are you up to checking this out tonight? I think we need to know before Morning Sacrament.”
The Rocaan’s body felt as if it were about to collapse underneath him, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Matthias. Matthias was right; they had to check this immediately, and the Rocaan wouldn’t be satisfied unless he did the work himself.
He extended an arm. “Help me up.”
Matthias stood and braced the Rocaan’s elbow with his hand. The Rocaan stood slowly. The ache that he usually had in his feet and joints in the morning had arrived this evening. The stress that he suffered was affecting his body. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could continue at this pace.
“We have no idea who could have done this,” Matthias said. “We must trust no one else.”
The Rocaan smiled to himself. At least he and Matthias were thinking along the same lines. And at least Matthias understood what had prompted the Rocaan’s actions a few moments earlier.
“I brought a small lamp,” the Rocaan said, pointing to the one on the table.
Matthias picked up the lamp. “Perfect.”
He opened the door and helped the Rocaan out of it. They walked down the corridor in silence, the only sound the Rocaan’s shoes whispering on the carpet.
They took a side staircase to the sanctuary. Matthias led them through the back chamber and into the sanctuary itself.
The sanctuary looked different in the dark. The sword hanging from the ceiling had the look of a wild thing swooping at them. The Sacrificial Table looked larger, and the pews seemed to extend forever into the blackness.
Matthias set the lamp on the Sacrificial Table. The scars in the wood became prominent. On the shelves beneath it, the glass vials gleamed.
“There are only a few,” the Rocaan said. “They must be left over from the Midnight Sacrament.”
He grabbed the table to keep his balance and reached for the vials beneath.
“Wait!” Matthias said. “You don’t know if
the liquid inside is something that might harm us. Let me do the dangerous work. There are ten Elders. You are unique.”
The Rocaan hated the argument, but he agreed. He straightened, ignoring the protest of his back.
Matthias took a vial from beneath and unstopped the cork. Then he sniffed loudly. The light flowed upward onto his face and reflected through the glass, distorting his features. His frown seemed ominous.
“It smells wrong,” he said.
He tilted the vial and poured some of the liquid onto the same hand that had held the Rocaan’s holy water earlier. “It feels right, though.”
Sacrifice: The First Book of the Fey Page 56